


Hallowe'en

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, so sorry if they seem a bit out of it, they're also younger than usual here so, this is more of my own versions of the characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: A recurring mysterious note leads Bats to a very peculiar encounter one Halloween night.





	Hallowe'en

**Author's Note:**

> I barely got this done on time for Halloween, thank god I did.

_“The preparations have been made. The black mare awaits me in the stable. Tonight we ride.”_ The message was an immediate red flag. And eerily similar to the previous four that had appeared seemingly out of the night air, keeping a perfect annual schedule. The spindly creeping handwriting was always unmistakably that of Jonathan Crane's, yet each year he was nowhere to be found. There wasn't even a trace of the horse he mentioned, and Bruce had already ruled out any symbolism behind this. There are no stables in or near Gotham, no businesses offering rental ponies this late, and Crane still hadn't made an appearance since last month. Not _physical_ , at least. There was mention of a guest at St. Francis' Orphanage, a man in costume set to arrive at 10 PM Halloween night. _Tonight_. It isn't much, but it's all he has to go off of.

Perched on the coping of a church's roof, Bruce watches the figures moving in the orphanage window, keeping his eye on the particular tall one rushing around. If his understanding of the building is correct, which it hopefully is, the room he's looking into is the kitchen. God only knows what Crane could have planned if he's lurking around in there. Poison, a bomb, a fire… Bruce forces the terrible possibilities from his mind, retrieving a bug from his belt and grappling across the street to the orphanage. Whether or not their last meeting left the rogue with a broken arm as Bruce had assumed, he could still do a horrible amount of damage. He made that painstakingly obvious the last time Bruce thought he’d had him cornered. Placing the bug on the wall just next to one of the windows, he turns his radar to the proper frequency as he grapples to another vantage point.

“…go bad if we don’t act fast,” a voice says over the airway.

“I understand that, thank you,” the uncanny calm voice of Crane replies, a small clang punctuating the end of his sentence. “But it’s imperative that I work quickly, and I’ve already set it to boil. Time is of the essence, Mr. Henry.”

Pulling out a pair of high tech binoculars, Bruce zooms in on the kitchen window just as the tall figure walks out of sight. Dammit. Using a small handheld device to guide the mobile bug after the figure, he changes his vantage point yet again. He isn’t even supposed to _be here_ yet…

 

It’s been nearly two hours. Almost 11 PM. Whatever Crane’s planning is still far from definite. He’s started making his way towards the kids, according to a few of the voices. This has gone on long enough. Securing the grappling hook, Bruce swings forward once again, crashing through the glass window with a batarang at the ready. For all the fury and, frankly, _fear_ Bruce had just felt, he finds himself at a loss of how to react at the sight he’s met with. Jonathan Crane stands amidst the crowd, dressed in 19th century clothes and a long false nose, a cast with multicolored scribbling writing on his arm greatly contrasting the black shirt and cape. Adults and children alike stare at Bruce for a moment, the sudden excited screams of kids drowning out a few of the workers whispering to one another, a few glancing at the now very pallid Crane. The man’s trembling hand nearly drops the small pumpkin it holds, what vaguely resembles a horse and rider scribbled on the gourd in black marker. The Bat and rogue lock eyes for a mere three seconds before several children swarm the vigilante’s feet, many more scrambling after them, all shouting up at Bruce in excitement. Oddly enough, two little girls shy away from the group, hiding behind Crane’s legs which are taller than even them, clinging to the costumed criminal until a man in a skeleton costume scoops both of them up and hurries away from Crane.

“I knew it was him!” the skeleton shouted, turning to the other costumed workers. “I told you all! Why else would he be here if it wasn’t that Scarecrow freak?!”

“Please, I-” Crane stutters, trying to explain himself.

He’s interrupted by a fist colliding with his face, sending his glasses skittering across the floor and the pumpkin falling from his hands, splattering on the cold tile. The two little girls scream as Crane reels backwards, nearly tripping over himself as he holds the side of his face.

“See what you can do without that fancy gas?!” another worker shouts, hitting Crane over the head with a plate which shatters against his skull.

Falling to his knees, Crane struggles to cover his face with a broken arm, bracing himself for the next blow. Rather than a kick or punch or some other blunt object, Crane is suddenly jerked backwards, colliding with the wall as the batarang nails his cape to the surface.

“Get the children out of here,” Bruce orders, “I’ll take care of him.”

The workers scrambling to hurry the children away, Bruce grabs Crane by the front of his shirt, pulling him up to glare at him face to face.

“P-Please, I didn’t do anything!” Crane blurts out, eyes as big as the plate he was hit with. “Don’t hurt me, I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

“You’re supposed to be in Arkham, Crane,” Bruce growls.

“They never have enough people to make dinner on Halloween,” Crane continues, beginning to ramble. “There was a volunteers wanted ad, I was the only person that showed up. No one else cared, and they were short on staff anyways, and the children-”

“You’re going back,” Bruce interrupts.

“They were going to go hungry if someone didn’t help out, and the cook didn’t even show up, and it just became a habit, and-” Grabbing Bruce’s wrist with his good hand, Crane begs, “please don’t send me back. I just wanted to help. _Please_.”

“You have to,” Bruce denies.

Stopping either of them from continuing, police sirens reach their ears, rapidly approaching as blue and red lights appear outside the window. Crane looks at the lights then back to Bruce, making one more attempt to plead for his freedom. He’s unable to as he’s thrown from the open window, being caught moments before colliding with the cement. He can hear a few laughs and no doubt mocking comments as his arm is taken from its sling and pulled behind his back before he’s handcuffed and forced into the back of the police car. He doesn’t dare open his eyes to look at the officers, not that he could even see them clearly.

 

Jonathan Crane sits in the emptiness of his cell, his arm in a new cast and nose broken, a black eye not helping his normally hindered vision. He’d much rather be in there, away from the other jeering inmates, delighted to find the terrifying Marquise of Misery had spent his Halloween doing community service last week. His already bruised heart sunk every time one of those deranged bastards spoke to him. He can’t help but assume the worst when he hears someone walking in his direction, though he’s surprised at the words directed towards him.

“Ya got a letter,” the guard says, throwing said letter through the bars at Jonathan. “Don’t see why any of you’re allowed to get mail, much less have anyone to send it to ya.”

Ignoring the guard, Jonathan studies the letter before warily opening it, only further surprised by its contents. Besides a newspaper clipping praising Wayne Industries’ large donation to St. Francis, a drawing of a black horse and tall rider adorns the back of a note written to him specifically. Under the handwritten note are the names of many of the St. Francis orphans, most notably the twin girls that had taken a particular liking to him for whatever reason. Though he found it odd that someone with a hand far too skilled to be a child would write to him, much less such kind words, especially with how the workers had reacted to his revealed identity, he couldn’t help but be delighted by the possibly falsified words. There was no return address or signature, but he couldn’t imagine anyone would want it to be known they’d wrote him. The elation from the letter drowned out this thought however, Jonathan hiding it under his mattress and doing his best to read the clipping. While whoever wrote him was courteous enough to write with a large script, the newspaper would take much more time to decipher.


End file.
